Page 48 of Desperate Haste
“You made some poor choices, but you’re stronger than your addiction and you prove that every day you wake up and choose not to use again. Your parents see that.”
“Do they? Because any time we talk for more than five minutes my dad likes to remind me about how weak I am and how disappointed he is that I couldn’t rise to the standards expected of me.” I try a chuckle but it comes out as more of a pained snort.
“Most people don’t understand what pushes a person to use for the first time. The pressure they’re under, the darkness they’re carrying. How heavy the world feels on their shoulders. Just because they don’t understand doesn’t mean your feelings are invalid,” he recants the speech I’ve heard a hundred times at this point. “You don’t need to convince them of your feelings. You need to show them that you’re stronger than the drugs that made you believe you were too weak for this world.”
We hold one another’s gaze for a moment and exchange a silent understanding that only people like us understand. That there’s always going to be people out there who believe we are weak for being addicts, even if we’re in recovery. That people out there—the ones who have never battled with the inner demons that justify drugs or alcohol as a means for survival—will never truly understand what it’s like to be us.
Hurt. Scarred. But still trying like hell to keep our heads above water.
“I know.” I nod my head finally. “I’m just nervous, that’s all. I’m staying at their house for the first time for a few days—Umma’s request. Christmas Eve through the day after Christmas, since the bar will be closed.”
“I think that’s a great idea. I’m sure that’ll make her really happy. Don’t forget to pack enough books.” He winks at me and nudges his elbow into my arm.
“I won’t.” I laugh easily and try to ignore the tension collecting in my shoulders as I think about spending three days at my parents’ house next week.
“I’m always in your corner, you know that.” When he says the words that have become our version of ‘I love you,’ I look at him and can’t help but give him a tight smile. He has always been in my corner, since the first day I met him.
“I know you are, and I’m always in yours.”
24
MALCOLM
I’ve been sitting in my truck for nearly ten minutes, staring at the house I grew up in and trying to find the willpower to get out and go inside. The words of my father and the sounds of my mother crying play on a loop in my head as if I’d just heard them yesterday.
‘How could you do this to us?’
‘You can’t quit school, an education is important.’
‘You’ve disgraced our family.’
‘Get out and don’t come back until you’re ready to live up to your potential.’
Coming back here was a practice of mental strength and self-control seeing as how part of the reason I became an addict was because of the harsh expectations that were set for me growing up. While my parents and I were second and third generation Korean-Americans and had adopted many American traditions and practices, there were still some strongly clung to values that lived on inside our family home. Respecting your parents wishes being the biggest one—and I hadn’t done that. Well, I tried to, but so much so that it caused me to self-destruct in a pretty big way. Looking at the front door, I know I’ll be welcoming in painful memories and opening old wounds by staying here. But I’d made a promise to Umma and while he might not admit it, I know my dad will appreciate that I’m here for the holiday.
‘Your father loves you, Malcolm.’
I scoff at the thought and shake my head. I give my dad five minutes before he makes some backhanded comment about my tattoos or asks me when I’m going to ‘leave that bartending gig’ for good. Just like he did when I was growing up, my father will never outwardly tell me he is disappointed in me. Instead, he chooses a more passive route of letting you know that you aren’t living up to the expectations set for you. One that, when you speak to him, you are silently asking yourself if he just insulted you and by the drive home you know that he did. Reaching behind my seat, I grab my overnight bag and sling the backpack in the front seat over my shoulder. It knocks into my back with a heavy ‘thumph’since I’d packed it full of books and other essentials I knew I’d want while I was staying at their place.
“Hello,” I call out as I step inside, kicking off my shoes by the front door.I snort when I see that a pair of plain black slippers have been left out for my arrival. Just like always. Stepping into them, I set my stuff down at the base of the steps and look around. A simple wooden cross hangs on the wall next to the front door with pictures of our family hanging around it. My eyes breeze over them having looked at them hundreds of times before. Three people with the same dark eyes and jet black hair looking at the camera without smiling. My mom with her arm draped over my shoulder, holding tight to her only child and my dad with his arms by his sides, there but disconnected. I start to move down the white painted hallway, looking at the pictures as I go when I hear hurried Korean spoken to me.
“There he is, my beautiful son,” Umma says in fluent Korean. Growing up, she always spoke to me in Korean, helping me learn the language and stay tied to my ancestral roots. My father, on the other hand, thought it was important for me to speak English and sound as American as I could. According to him, I would be offered better jobs and get more opportunities that way. As a kid, I always found it annoying that one parent would only ever speak to me in Korean while the other hardly spoke a word of it. As an adult, I love the gift my mother gave me of knowing another language. While I might not use it outside of our family home, it’s still comforting to walk in and hear the language that makes up part of who I am.
“Hello, Umma,” I reply, speaking in the language I know she’ll expect. I lean over so she can give me a hug and a peck on the cheek. She pulls away and presses the palms of her hands into my cheeks, frowning, and I wait for whatever comment she’s going to make about how I look.
“You’re too skinny. Come inside and let me feed you.”
I laugh and shake my head at her, holding onto her wrists. “I’m not too skinny, I’m fine, Umma. Look at how strong I am, you think a skinny guy has muscles like these?” When I flex she laughs and waves her hand at me, encouraging me to follow her into the kitchen. She flicks a finger towards the table and I take the same seat I’d always sat in growing up. Before I can tell her I’m not hungry or even take a breath, she’s setting several platters of food in front of me. She must have been cooking the last few days as many of my favorite childhood dishes are fully prepped and ready for me to consume.
“Umma, I’m not hungry,” I try to tell her but she ignores me and places a pair of chopsticks in my hand. Grabbing a plate, she sets it in front of me and starts to fill it up with various dishes, fussing over me under her breath in Korean. Knowing that this is how she shows me she cares, I place a hand on her back and smile at her. She pauses to look at me and I lean in and give her a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Umma. I love you.”
Her face softens into a smile but only for a moment until the padding of footsteps on the stairs reaches the two of us. Standing up straight, she moves into the kitchen leaving me sitting at the table and in eyeshot of the hallway. When he rounds the corner and looks at me, it feels as if the temperature in the room has reached subzero temperatures. I set my chopsticks down and stand from the table to meet him in the doorway.
“Hello, father,” I greet him in English with a respectful bow. When I rise, he looks at me through metal framed glasses with his lips pulled into a tight line. My heart pounds against my chest as I wait for him to respond and I try to brace myself for what he might say.
He bows in return. “Son. Thank you for spending the holiday with us. We’re happy you’re here.”
I blink a few times and try not to look as surprised as I feel. His words almost feel genuine and I wonder what kinds of conversations took place before my arrival.
